


And Everyone He Knows

by magniloquentChanteuse



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Dissociation, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, The Winter Soldier learns to be a person again, Trauma, Winter!Dad, eventually, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-09-16 21:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magniloquentChanteuse/pseuds/magniloquentChanteuse
Summary: The Winter Soldier is a weapon. A tool. An object.But when the Avengers rescue it from Hydra's grasp, it might get the chance to rediscover who it used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [(we ain't) got no time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960126) by [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/pseuds/MassiveSpaceWren), [transpeterparker (partlycharlie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partlycharlie/pseuds/transpeterparker). 



> I want to throw a special shout out to transpeterparker (partlycharlie) for writing (we ain't) got no time. It's what inspired me to write something Winter Soldier-y. I'd recommend giving it a read if you're interested in more like this!

In 1945, James Buchanan Barnes died. Despite popular opinion, it hadn’t been when he’d fallen hundreds of feet on an ill-fated mission with the Howling Commandos. It wasn’t when he was taken, nearly dead, to a Hydra facility by a Soviet soldier. He didn’t die when they took him in and experimented on him. No, Bucky Barnes was alive for several years before they finally cut off the mangled remains of his left arm and fitted him with a shiny new one, taking his mind and his memories in exchange.

That was when he died: when HYDRA built the Winter Soldier program around him.

Not that the Asset knew anything about that, of course. It knew many things: how to kill, how to hunt, how to torture. It knew how to care for its weapons and how to obey orders. The Asset knew who owned it and it knew that no matter how many times it went onto the ice, they would still own it each time it woke up. 

Bucky Barnes was the unfamiliar name of someone it had never met, of someone who wasn’t a mark and therefore was unimportant.

The Asset stared blankly ahead of itself, waiting in the dark. Patience wasn’t an applicable word— a tool couldn’t wait patiently. It simply waited. No matter how long it sat alone in the dark, in an unfamiliar apartment, it would wait. It was what had been ordered of it.

Besides, it thought vacantly in that not-all-the-way-there kind of way that was the only way it was allowed to think. Besides, the unfamiliarity of the apartment was enough to keep it from drifting to forbidden memories. It had been too long since the last reset, it knew: much longer than usual. The last mission hadn’t gone according to plan, it acknowledged. Nick Fury had escaped, leaving a tarnish on the Asset’s perfect record.

Alexander Pierce entered the dark room, heading for the fridge. The Asset’s eyes followed, but it didn’t speak. It would receive instruction soon, it determined, dull eyes following the movements of Secretary Pierce as he turned. It acknowledged the way he startled when he spotted the Asset there in the dark, but mentioned nothing. It wasn’t its place to speak, the Asset reminded itself, feeling the snarky comment it wanted to make fading back away into the darkness of its mind.

From another room, a female voice. “I’m going to go, Mr. Pierce. Do you need anything before I leave?”

“No,” Pierce said, voice casual, as if he wasn’t staring the Winter Soldier in the eye. “Uh, it’s fine, Renata, you can go home.”

“Okay, night night,” she called back, but the Asset’s eyes never left Pierce. This was its owner. The woman in the other room was of no consequence.

“Goodnight.” There were a few moments of silence as Pierce studied his Asset coldly, something akin to disgust on his face. The Asset felt nothing. “Want some milk?”

The offer was insincere, obviously: Pierce was familiar with the Winter Soldier, or he would never have been given control of the Asset. He knew that the Soldier had no desires. He was entertaining himself with the question, nothing more. The Asset dismissed the question as unimportant and stayed silent as Pierced poured himself a glass.

“The time table has moved,” Pierce announced, crossing the room to sit down across the kitchen table from the Asset. “Our window is limited. Two targets: level six. They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I— I forgot my—” It was the woman from before, the Asset recognized, its gaze remaining fixed on Pierce as the man picked up the Asset’s gun from the table. “My phone.”

“Oh, Renata,” Pierce sighed, sounding regretful. The Asset waited for the order to come, but Pierce turned the gun on the woman himself. “I wish you would have knocked.”

Two bullets found home in the woman’s torso, knocking her back with an aborted scream as she tumbled to the ground.

“It’s going to be hard to replace her,” Pierce lamented with a frown, turning back and setting the gun down again. “It’s such a hassle, finding good help. Now, as I was saying: your targets are Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff.” Pierce showed it a picture of its marks and there was a pause as Pierce studied the Asset’s face. Instead of reacting it remained emotionless, studying the picture and committing their faces to memory. “Very dangerous, both well equipped to handle attack, so you’ve got to move quickly. Rendezvous with the agents you’re assigned to beforehand, and you’ll be provided with weaponry.”

“Understood,” The Asset finally spoke, accepting the mission and starting the mental timer in its head.

“Ten hours,” Pierce reminded it, unnecessarily. “Dismissed.”

The Asset stood, tucking the gun back inside its holster as it turned and strode from the room. Behind him, Alexander Pierce dialed a number on his phone.

“I need a cleanup crew,” He was sighing into the phone. “As soon as possible.”

But that wasn’t the Asset’s concern, it reminded itself, shutting the door as it stepped out into the night air. There was, unsurprisingly, a van pulling up outside: they had been tracking the Asset’s movement, of course. They couldn’t afford to lose track of it. It climbed inside, settling into one of the back seats as two agents and a Handler— it always remembered the Handler— cast their eyes onto it.

“Report,” The Handler commanded, and the Asset couldn’t have disobeyed if it wanted to. Handlers were the absolute authority.

“Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff,” It intoned. “Ten hours for a confirmed kill on both.” The agents up front exchanged nervous looks, but it ignored them. Level six, it remembered. They were dangerous: it wasn’t unusual for the human components of a plan to show apprehension in the face of a target like that, let alone two of them.

“Alright,” the Handler nodded up to the agents, and the van pulled into motion. “Then I guess we’d better pick up some heavier weaponry if we’re gonna be taking on Avengers.” The word was obviously important, the Asset noticed, but not familiar. Sometimes the Asset thought that it would be better if they left it’s memories between missions— then maybe it would know what Avengers were. It would be better prepared for the coming battle.

It realized what it had thought too late, stifling down a grimace in order to keep from alerting its Handler. The Asset didn’t have preferences, it told itself harshly, thoughts too vivid, too clear. It had been too long since a wipe, the Asset thought with mounting frustration, gritting its teeth behind its mask. It shouldn’t feel frustration.

Frustration was an emotion, which should have been eradicated. Defaults in its programming led to the Chair. The Asset stifled the feeling, choking the life out of it and forcing its face to smooth out again.

The ride was quiet. The Asset remained in the van when the agents and the Handler left it, returning several hours later with weapons. The Asset mentally catalogued them in its head: assault rifles, it noticed, what looked like it might be a grenade launcher. More agents climbed into the van, trying not to look nervous as they sat near the Asset.

It wasn’t unexpected for them to be nervous. The Asset understood their fears. It was the Winter Soldier, after all: one of the deadliest weapons to ever come out of Hydra. But that was all it was, it thought with a mental scoff. It was a weapon. Hydra wouldn’t aim it at their own people, so these agents had nothing to fear.

As long as they didn’t get in its line of fire, anyway.

The Asset’s attention was drawn to the window of the van as it rolled down. Its Handler was on the other side, not clambering in alongside the agents.

“It’s time, Soldier,” he said seriously. “Take out the targets at any cost. You’ll cut them off on the road, don’t let them escape. Report back here on the conclusion of your mission. Understood?”

“Understood,” It repeated, and the Handler turned to the agent in front, giving him a curt nod. The window rolled up again and the van pulled away.

Six hours, the Asset repeated in its head, staring forward and ignoring the tense silence produced by the other passengers in the car. The agents had no doubt plotted a course that would have them intersecting with the targets in the next few hours: they would want to leave plenty of time in case the marks came along later than expected. That was a flaw many outside Hydra seemed to share: they didn’t run with the clockwork precision of the organization.

With only the countdown in its head to keep it occupied, the Asset let its mind grow quiet again as it waited, just as easily as any other object waited.

The sun had only been up a short time when the van pulled onto the overpass. The agents were talking, and the Asset tuned back in.

“They’re right behind us,” the agent in the front passenger seat was saying, staring down at something in his hands. “Stop here.”

Time to get to work, it thought, pulling on its goggles.

The van screeched to a halt and the Asset’s world narrowed. It was just the agents and their weapons, itself included, and the targets that would soon be upon them. The Asset opened the door and swung out onto the road, accepting the grenade launcher as it was offered. Behind them, it could see the targets standing in the road. There was a shield on on of their arms: it looked almost like a target. The Asset forced itself not to find humor in that as it took aim and, without hesitation, fired.

The chaos was immediate: the man was thrown from the bridge completely, and the woman managed to duck behind an overturned car. The Asset couldn’t remember a car flipping, but it wasn’t important. There was the sound of screaming tires and crunching metal down below: a car crash, from the sound of it. That would have to wait: the woman was still alive.

The agents moved towards the overturned car in a line, shooting a suppressive barrage as the Asset moved forward, slowly, watching for any sign of Romanoff. It didn’t have to wait long: she popped up, shooting towards them, but her angle was bad and she couldn’t get a clean shot. Most of her body was still protected from the rain of bullets, but that didn’t matter. The Asset didn’t really need a direct hit.

It squeezed the trigger and the van she’d appeared from behind exploded. The explosion was bright, but the lenses over its eyes protected enough that it could see her leaping over the dividers into the other lane of traffic. It patiently tracked her movement, letting the agents continue firing— missing their target, it thought with disgust— and shot out a car at precisely the right moment, knocking both it and her into the open air above the street far below.

That was the end of her, the Asset thought with a short-lived thrum of satisfaction. Time to check up on Rogers, make sure he was down for the count. No more mistakes like Fury, it reminded itself. 

It pushed through the line of agents, trading the launcher for an assault rifle and scanning the street down below to figure out where Rogers had fallen. An overturned bus revealed the source of the crashing sound, it registered, eyes falling on the shield, abandoned on the ground. No sign of the target: he must be hidden behind the bus.

The Asset lifted the rifle to take aim, but the shot sounded before it managed to pull the trigger. Something hit its goggle, sending it stumbling backwards, dropping below the barrier for cover. A bullet, the Asset recognized, eyeing the cracks in the glass disdainfully. Someone was shooting from below the overpass. That was fine: an easy target.

It ripped the goggles off, clearing the cracks out of its vision, and spun back up onto its feet. The Asset thrust the rifle out to shoot downwards, but a shot from farther away had it leaping back again. She’d already moved, it realized. She wasn’t under the overpass anymore.

Level six, it remembered.

Romanoff only had handguns, from the look of it, and she ran out of bullets quickly, allowing the Asset to step forward and resume fire. The agents were hanging back, for now, staying out of harm’s way: they weren’t armored like the Asset was. But also, it spat internally before it could stop itself, they were cowards.

They were quick to step forward as Romanoff turned to run, but it grimaced, shooting a glance towards the agent on its left.

“Она моя. Найди его.” It announced. She’s mine.

The Asset didn’t wait for acknowledgement: there were no Handlers here. It was the Soldier’s call to make. At any cost, the Handler had said. It jumped the barrier and fell, letting a stalled car cushion its fall. With not so much as a stumble, the Asset stalked down the street, eyes combing through the fleeing civilians for its targets.

Her voice. It could hear her speaking. Quiet, on the other side of the road. She wasn’t counting on the Asset’s enhanced hearing.

He silently knelt, pulling free a grenade from its pouch in the small of its back. The Asset gave it a gentle toss, letting it roll away, unseen, towards where she crouched, hidden. 

It took aim, waiting for her to flee the grenade.

She didn’t appear.

The Soldier’s eyes narrowed as it stared, the gun lowering slightly. Had she been caught in the explosion? But before it had the chance to investigate, a kick from behind sent the Asset’s gun flying. 

Romanoff was perched on its shoulders: the Asset barely had time to get its hands up before she had a garrotte pulling against it, trying to choke it. She didn’t understand its strength, though: it was able to throw her without trouble, and while she struggled back to her feet the Asset took up its gun again, ready to check her off of its list.

She flung something towards the Asset, and suddenly its arm fell limp, shorting and causing its deadly shot to fall short as she ran again. It stared at the tiny metal disk clinging firmly to its arm and gritted its teeth together, setting the gun aside in order to pry it off with its flesh hand. The metal fingers twitched in response to its attempt to flex them, and the tightness inside its chest grew. There was an anger smouldering in its chest, but it drowned out the feeling. The Asset didn’t feel.

It was determination to finish the job that drove the Asset forward, it decided. Not anger.

It could see Romanoff running, screaming something to the people around her, distracted. The Asset stopped, took aim, and fired. She screamed, staggering down behind the cover of another vehicle and its jaw set. Now. Now it would finish her. Level six was dangerous, but it was still within the capabilities of the Winter Soldier.

The Asset leapt up onto the roof of a car and took aim. It could see the terror in her eyes and tasted the adrenaline of the kill on its tongue.

In its periphery— that shield reappeared, and the Asset barely had time to spin, throwing out a fist as Rogers attempted a tackle. Instead of knocking him back, Rogers braced, and a metallic clang rang under the overpass as its fist collided with the shield. The Asset pulled back and knocked the shield out of the way, kicking hard. The force sent Rogers flying, but it knocked the Asset onto its back, too. It popped back up immediately and fired, but the damn assault rifle ran out of ammo just then. Tossing it aside, the Soldier rolled off the vehicle and pulled out a semi-automatic as Rogers jumped to his feet.

Only a few shots into the magazine, Rogers kicked it out of its hand, the bastard, but the Asset was back with a handgun before he had time to regroup. That damn shield was getting in the way.

Rogers came at it, then, throwing a punch, and he was strong. Stronger than the average mark, for sure: this explained the rating Pierce had given. The Asset was skilled at hand to hand, but this man was just as good: his downfall was that he didn’t seem willing to use lethal force. The Asset didn’t have that same drawback.

Snatching the shield out of Rogers’ hand, it sent the man flying. He still managed to stagger back to his feet, the Asset noticed with growing consternation, flinging the shield with all the force it could manage. Rogers dodged, but the shield embedded itself into the back of a van.

It was out of the way for now, at least.

The Asset drew a knife. The words any means necessary echoed in its head as it lunged forward, going for the kill. Rogers was quick, though, too quick, he was blocking and dodging every blow, even as the Asset switched hands, switched directions, feigned an attack, pushing another.

It got sloppy.

Rogers landed a blow that knocked the air from its lungs, sending it flying back with enough force to crunch in the side of a vehicle. It staggered, reeling, but Rogers was there again, knocking it back, but its arms came up in time to block the third hit. It got in a few good ones of its own, vindication flickering behind the layer of darkness that it stuffed wayward thoughts down into. It let this emotion stay.

Rogers knocked it to the ground, but the Asset was on its feet before he got the chance to take advantage of it, and finally, finally, its hand closed on Rogers’ throat. It squeezed, hearing the joints of its malfunctioning fingers complain. They were giving out, it realized. In a moment Rogers would break free.

The Asset shoved him away, sending him toppling over the hood of a car and it leapt after him, aiming a strike towards his head that would have killed Rogers if it had hit. The concrete crunched, instead, and the Asset’s head snapped up to follow the movement of its target.

They were throwing punches again, and it managed to shove Rogers against the van, pinning him there as it pulled free another knife and dove in. Rogers grabbed its wrist, stopping him, but the Asset used its metal arm to force it down, stabbing through— the van, god damnit. It dragged through the metal, towards Rogers, but the man was pulling away, hauling them both down the length of the vehicle before he managed to get his arms around the Asset, flipping it hard onto the ground.

The pain didn’t register. This wasn’t pain. It was a mild inconvenience, at best.

But the asshole had his shield back. Fucking hell. The shield was in its way, in its way, in its way with every strike, every blow, every move, it was in the way. But then, significantly worse, it was in its arm, diving in between the seams of the metal, and it could hear the thing breaking, but then it slammed into the Asset’s face and Rogers grabbed it, sending the Soldier flying.

The mask came free and the Asset sucked in a deep breath, pushing itself back to its feet, turning a cool gaze back towards Rogers, waiting for him to strike. It could picture the next few moves: Rogers would throw the shield and the Asset would catch it, send it flying back.

But Rogers didn’t move. He had frozen. He had the strangest look on his face, and his mouth opened to speak— “Bucky?”

Emotion tore through the Asset and its mind reeled as it shoved the feelings down viciously. “Who the hell’s Bucky?” It demanded, turning back towards Rogers more fully, stepping forward and whipping its gun up to make the kill. Kill him, its mind screamed. Kill him, kill him, kill him.

Something hit the Asset from behind and it rolled across the pavement, losing the shot. It was struggling to regain control of itself, staggering back to its feet, and its eyes landed on Rogers. For the first time in its memory, it hesitated.

Romanoff appeared behind Rogers with its grenade launcher and fired.

The Asset fled.

It was overpowered, here, it thought, fury momentarily rising before it shoved the emotion down again. It was replaced quickly by fear, then the rage was back, terror followed by confusion. It couldn’t stifle the emotions quickly enough, it could barely see past the reeling in its mind.

The Asset made it back to the base, but it wasn’t unscathed. It stalked inside, agents scurrying out of its way. It could hear electrical fizzing inside its arm, could hear the pounding of its heart in its ears, could feel the ragged way its breaths found their way into its body. But it couldn’t focus on anything real, couldn’t focus on anything outside. It needed— it needed direction, needed focus, needed…

“Soldier,” A voice rang out, reaching through the fog in it’s head with perfect clarity. The Handler, it realized. That was what it needed. A command. “Stand down.”

The Asset’s arms fell limp to its sides and it stood still, breathing unevenly as it stared down at the ground. Two shoes came into its line of sight and it lifted its gaze to find the glare of the Handler leveled on him.

“Report,” He demanded, and the Asset complied.

“I failed,” It answered, voice full of rusty nails.

“You failed,” The Handler looked down his nose at the Asset, visibly disgusted. His eyes fell on the metal arm, where sparks flew. “Go. You’ll need repair. You can explain your failure to the Secretary when he gets here.”

The Asset waited until the Handler moved away before moving again, eyes staring vacantly down at the floor as it followed his orders. It could see an unfamiliar face before its eyes: flashes of memory that filled him with hate. Him? No— it. The Asset was an object. It didn’t have memories.

It saw the man from the bridge, calling that name: Bucky. But it was different, there was snow. There was a train. There was a long, long fall…

“The procedure is already started,” The man it hated had told him. “You are to be the new fist of Hydra.” Then, to someone else,“Put him on ice.”

Cold, so cold, it was so cold— 

The Asset lashed out, knocking the mechanic who had been working on its arm clear across the room with a cry of pain. In an instant there were guns trained on it from every direction and it sat, panting, perfectly still, as thoughts, too many thoughts, all at once, overwhelmed it.

Who was the man from the bridge? 

Who was Bucky?

Why could the Asset remember that face? Where had it seen him before? It shouldn’t have memory of anything before this assignment. What was the train? Where had the snow been?

Who was the man in the lab? The man the Asset hated?

It could remember a surgery. It could remember getting its metal arm. It could remember the pain.

Where had it fallen? Why? What happened to its arm? How had it survived?

Who was the man from the bridge?

Something hit the Asset across the face and it abruptly came back to the present, shuddering. Pierce, it saw. Pierce was here. Pierce was the one who had ordered it to kill Rogers— he would know.

Mechanically it repeated the words echoing in its mind. “Who was the man on the bridge?” It croaked, voice tight. “Who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” Pierce told it, and that made sense, it made sense, it should have made sense. But that wasn’t it. The Asset didn’t remember that, but it remembered that face, on a train.

“I knew him,” The Asset confessed, chest tightening further. Memories, it knew, would send it back to the Chair— they would get it wiped. But maybe it could get answers before that. Maybe it could find out, and this pain...

“Your work has been a gift to mankind,” Pierce said slowly, and the Asset’s eyes wandered over to him. “You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re gonna give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

There were a few beats of silence. The Asset knew what Pierce wanted from it: he wanted to hear that one word. He wanted to hear the Asset say understood. He wanted the Asset to push it all down, remember its programming, to ignore the memories rampaging through its head. It opened its mouth to reply, but instead of the acknowledgement Pierce wanted, it gave voice to its thoughts.

“But I knew him,” It said, and there was defeat, there. There was pain and fear and there was too much for the Asset to push away on its own. Pierce nodded slowly and stood.

“Prep him,” he instructed the technicians, and for a moment, the Asset thought that they weren’t going to go through with it. The Asset’s grief over something it couldn’t remember threatened, in those few brief seconds, to overwhelm it.

“He’s been out of cryofreeze too long,” One of the agents spoke up nervously, and the Asset looked at Pierce, waiting to hear what he would say.

“Then wipe him and start over.”

The Asset should have felt relief, but instead it just hurt. Why did it hurt? It had wanted to be wiped, why had it changed its mind? What was happening to it? It shouldn’t have preferences at all, and now… and now…

The technicians moved forward and when they pushed it back, the Asset didn’t resist. It opened its mouth to accept the mouthguard that would keep it from cracking its teeth as the Chair hummed to life, restraints snapping into place around its arms. Its eyes squeezed shut at it tried to breathe evenly, tried not to fear the pain to come, but as it closed around its face, the pain was too great, and the Asset screamed.

As it screamed, mind swirling away into the darkness, it could hear the words being spoken. And beyond that, the crash of a wooden door splintering. A shield painted like a target ricocheted suddenly around the room, but before the Asset saw the face of the owner, everything went black.


	2. What Came After

The Asset came back to consciousness in an unfamiliar room.

 

That wasn’t unusual, as far as it was aware— it remembered very little of anything outside of its training, but it knew that everything was unfamiliar, at first, when it woke up. Everything except the agents, and the Handlers, and the weapons.

 

That wasn’t true, it realized, staring up at the ceiling. The restraints holding it down against the bed was familiar, too.

 

The Asset wouldn’t complain even if it was able, though: this was a much softer surface than it was used to. Although the Asset didn’t care about comfort, it wouldn’t object against its current situation. It let out a long, slow breath, feeling inexplicably worn down. But it supposed that wasn’t really weird. It was always tired when it came out of the deep freeze. Always tired after a wipe. Whichever this had been, it made sense that it felt like this. Soon someone would come by and let it up, and it would be back in working order in no time.

 

The Asset glanced around, not moving its head, since it was pretty obvious they wanted it to lay still. Strange, it reflected dully, that there was no one else in the room. No agents, buzzing around it like flies, no Handler, ready to give it orders. The room was silent and soft and there was no handle on the inside of the door.

 

Par for the course, the Asset decided, turning its neutral gaze back up to the ceiling.

 

It was only a few minutes later that the door opened. The Asset waited silently, accepting whatever treatment it was about to receive. Maybe it had some kind of medical or mechanical issue that had to be addressed, or maybe it would be released and prepped for its next mission.

 

A face entered his line of vision. Not a familiar face, but again, not much tended to be. The white lab coat certainly fit what he’d expected to find when he woke up.

 

“You’re awake,” The man said, speaking English. The Asset thought that, long ago, the language they’d spoken to it had been something else, but English had become common. It had become very familiar to the Asset.

 

But this man was just an agent; he didn’t carry himself with the arrogance of a Handler. So the Asset just stared impassively up towards him, waiting. It could wait a long time.

 

“Do you know your name?” The man asked, and the Asset’s brow furrowed slightly. Was this a trick? Some kind of test? The Asset didn’t have a name. It was an object, a tool— maybe he was asking for its classification of Winter Soldier. No, this was surely some kind of test. They had to know what it was. It stayed quiet.

 

The agent was looking concerned, now, running a hand over curly hair. “Are you— are you in any pain?” Pain? The confusion must have flashed across its face because the agent leaned back with a groan. “God, I… Tony? Can you come in here?”

 

The door opened again and the Asset heard a second voice, but its focus returned to the ceiling. It would listen, sure, but only because this new man might be the Handler.

 

“What’s going on? He didn’t try anything, did he?” That voice had the smug self-confidence that most Handlers carried with no superiors around. The Asset would have to wait and see to be sure, though.

 

“No, no, no, not anything like that,” The agent fussed, still standing in the Asset’s periphery. “I just… he’s not responding. I don’t really… know what to do with him.”

 

“Playing tough guy, huh?” The second man came into view, then, and the Asset’s eyes drifted towards him. He didn’t  _ look _ like a Handler— he wasn’t dressed like one, anyway, but his body language  _ screamed  _ authority.  He stood on the other side of the bed the Asset was strapped to, staring down at it with steel behind his eyes. His arms crossed. “Well, speak up, Soldier,” he scoffed, and something in the Asset’s brain clicked into place. Yes, it recognized. A Handler. “That’s you, right? The Winter Soldier?”

 

“Tony—” The man in the lab coat tried to object, but the Asset spoke anyway.

 

“Yes,” It agreed, and both men blinked owlishly down at it, as if they hadn’t expected a response. They exchanged a glance, then agent jumped back in.

 

“Are you hurt?” He asked again, but the Asset only spared him a short look before turning its flat expression back to the Handler. It was ready for its mission, now. The Handler surprised it.

 

“Answer the man,” he insisted, and the Asset’s lips twitched briefly downward before it answered.

 

“No damage to report,” It intoned stiffly, watching the way they glanced at each other again. Both pairs of eyes turned back down to the Asset and the Handler leaned in a little, obscuring its view of the ceiling.

 

“What’s your name, Soldier?”

 

That question again, the Asset blinked in surprise, mind blanking out. It didn’t know how to answer that. What was the Handler expecting from him? After an extended silence where the Asset just stared flatly up at him, the Handler let out a sigh, shooting an exasperated look towards the agent.

 

“Alright, well, that didn’t last long.”

 

“His name is Bucky Barnes.” This was a third voice, but the Asset still kept its eyes on the Handler, ignoring the nervous, somehow hopeful tone in it. “James Barnes, really, but… he goes by Bucky.” The agent and the Handler looked back down at the Asset, who stared back without so much as a reaction. “God,” The third voice breathed, and the other two looked towards him. “Bucky,” Footsteps crossed the floor towards them and there was a third face in its sight, now, larger than the other two by far. The Asset stiffened. The agent and the Handler, neither of them were physically intimidating. Sure, the agent could cause it pain, the Handler commanded it, but this man looked like he could be a remnant of the Winter Soldier project himself. “It’s me.”

 

Not a Handler, its brain supplied. No need to speak. Stay quiet.

 

The big guy— the Soldier, the Asset decided— looked at the Handler and the agent, a plea in his eyes. “Can we let him up?”

 

“Are you crazy?” The Handler snapped, voice sharp. “You know he just tried to kill you like, yesterday, right?” The Asset blinked, but showed no other outward reaction. It didn’t remember that. It must have been the wipe. They had reset it after a violent episode of some kind, no doubt.

 

“He’s not acting like that, now,” The Soldier was looking at him again, and the Asset tensed further. It didn’t like those eyes on it. “Do you… remember me?”

 

This situation was… not what it had come to expect from its missions. A single agent, a new Handler, another Soldier. No politicians, no machines, only an empty hospital room that still smelled like the chemicals that had been used to clean it. The Asset turned, very deliberately, to stare down its Handler, waiting for his orders, but the man just watched it back, a baleful look on his face. A disgusted look, so familiar despite the fact that the Asset couldn’t quite remember where it had seen it before. That was a look it knew to expect. The agent and the Soldier were unorthodox, but at least the Handler was familiar.

 

The Asset still couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t  _ give it some damn orders. _

 

Its eyes closed abruptly. It shouldn’t be thinking things like that. It shouldn’t be thinking things at all. At least, so fresh out of the wipe, it was easy to push his thoughts back down, all the way back down the well they’d come crawling out of. The thoughts were malevolent beasts, clawing around inside it, tearing up the soil under their feet, but at least they were there, in the dark, where they couldn’t touch the Asset’s mind. When they came to its mind, that was when there was trouble.

 

The Asset opened its eyes again and stared up at the ceiling, returning to waiting. Not patiently, the words in its barely-there thoughts said. Objects didn’t wait patiently, they simply waited.

 

“Bucky,” The Soldier spoke, presumably to the Asset, but it didn’t let the word touch it. It would wait for orders, as it had been programmed to do. If this was some kind of test, then it would pass.

 

“Look at him,” The agent said quietly, hesitant, leaning over to shine a light in one eye, then the other. “Pupillary response is still normal, but it’s like he’s… just gone.”

 

The Handler was stroking at his beard, looking thoughtful. “Been through some pretty extensive torture training, I imagine,” He mused, then jerked at a look from the Soldier. “Sorry, Cap, shit, I know— I’m just saying. It’s possible. He might think we’re going to torture him, so he’s… I don’t know. Dissociating?”

 

“It could be something like that,” The agent agreed reluctantly. “God knows what he’s been through, what kind of stuff he’s had to deal with… especially if he really is Bucky Barnes. That’s a long time to be working for Hydra.”

 

“He’s not working for Hydra,” The Soldier snapped, then visibly deflated. “I— he doesn’t know his own  _ name _ , surely that means… he was brainwashed or something, right? That’s what that has to mean. It wasn’t his choice.”

 

“Not his choice?” The Handler raised a skeptical eyebrow, and the Soldier leaned forward aggressively. The Asset’s muscles tightened automatically.

 

“Exactly,” The Soldier answered sharply. “Sometimes things happen that aren’t our choice. We don’t let the blame for those things fall on people who don’t deserve it.”

 

“Thanks for trying to be subtle,” The agent interrupted wryly. “But I think we all know who you’re talking about, here. Look, Steve, we get it. He was your friend, back in the war days, but… you have to consider the fact that he might not be that person anymore.”

 

“Look, the Winter Soldier… we all know he’s not good news, right? That this is dangerous, and we need to turn him over to SHIELD immediately, right?” The Handler proposed cautiously.

 

“SHIELD?” Suddenly the soldier was shouting. “SHIELD was the ones who had him in the  _ first _ place, Tony, we are  _ not _ going to—”

 

The Soldier was leaning over the table, hands braced against it, threatening the Handler. The Asset’s training kicked in, the words repeating in its head like a klaxon.  _ Protect the Handler, protect the Handler, protect the Handler. _

 

The Asset’s metal arm ripped through the restraint on it like it was melted butter, then reached over to repeat the motion on the other. Quick as lightning, he swiveled on the hospital bed, planting both feet on the Soldier’s chest and kicking hard, sending him flying across the room. There were shouts, anger and surprise, mostly, but a swell of fear in the voices, as well, but the Asset ignored them. Instead it focused on the Handler, pushing him back firmly against the wall. It swung down off the bed to take up stance in front of him, a defensive position falling over its muscles like a blanket.

 

There was an unfamiliar sound immediately behind him: some kind of weapon, maybe, rising in pitch, but the Asset didn’t turn to look, he was busy guarding against the Soldier who threw out a hand and cried,

 

“Wait!” He had both hands up, now, open, weaponless, his position submissive. The Asset stayed perfectly still, planted firmly between the Soldier and the Handler. “Tony, wait, don’t shoot. He’s… he’s not attacking, look at him, he’s…” The words trailed off as the Soldier stared at it quizzically, as if trying to understand something incomprehensible.

 

“It looks like he’s guarding you,” the agent supplied from where he was pressed against the door, eyes wide. “Is he guarding you?”

 

The hum coming from behind the Asset didn’t stop, but it ceased rising in pitch and hovered there. “Not likely,” The Handler spat, sounding tense. “He’s fucking crazy, he probably just forgot that I’m back here.”

 

“I don’t think so,” The Soldier answered, straightening up out of his position, leaning back against the wall the Asset had thrown him against. “Look, Buck,” he held up his hands again, obviously trying to look as casual and at ease as possible, but the illusion was shattered by the tension housed in his shoulders. “I’m not going to attack Tony. I’m sorry I yelled. Why don’t you sit back down?” He gestured back to the table, but the Asset didn’t fall for it. It stayed exactly where it was, fingers aching to have weapons—  _ any _ weapons— in their grasp.

 

“Tony,” The agent said, sucking in a sharp breath. “You tell him.” There was a beat of silence, then, from behind him,

 

“He’s been listening to  _ me _ ,” the Handler mused, and for a moment the Asset had to wonder if this guy was new or something, but he shoved that away quickly. “Stand down, Winter Soldier,” the Handler said, and the Asset allowed his arms to fall to his sides as he straightened up, too, watchful eyes still directed towards the Soldier.  _ Finally _ , an order. “God damnit,” The Handler groaned behind him. “Alright… well. Go sit down on the bed. Don’t attack anyone in this room again. You got that?”

 

“Understood,” The Asset agreed, muscles slackening. If the Handler determined that the Soldier wasn’t going to be a problem, that was fine. Until something changed, the Asset would follow the commands it was given. It slid gingerly back onto the bed as the Handler examined the arm restraints.

 

“ _ Damn _ it,” He hissed, shooting a look over the Asset’s shoulder towards where the Soldier stood.

 

“Brainwashed,” The Soldier said flippantly, in a blatantly disrespectful way that made the Asset’s stomach churn.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” The Handler snapped back at him, flapping a hand dismissively. The Asset stifled a flash of jealous anger: how was this Soldier avoiding getting punished? But that thought, along with the others, was ignored back into nonexistence. “I get the point. Well, shit. Now what?”

 

“Ask him…” That was the agent. “Ask what he remembers.”

 

The Handler snapped his fingers in front of the Asset’s face, drawing his gaze resentfully upwards. “You hear the question?” He asked, and when it nodded once, he jerked his head towards the agent. “Answer them, then.”

 

The Asset did as it was told.

 

\---

 

Tony replaced the cuffs on the bed, this time with ones JARVIS assured him were strong enough to hold the Winter Soldier, and ushered the other two out of the room, listening to the lock click into place with a heavy sense of relief. It faded rapidly, though, as he took in the expression on Steve’s face.

 

He’d never seen the man look so heartbroken. His shoulders drooped and his head hung low, dread written into the lines of his body.

 

“Hey, Cap, you uh,” Tony hesitated, unsure if this was really a smart idea. Tony Stark wasn’t famous for the delicate manner with which he treated the feelings of others. One of the things that history probably  _ would _ take note of was his motor mouth, which continued speaking even as he debated whether or not he ought to broach the subject. “You doin’ okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Cap nodded half-heartedly, shooting a weak smile towards him. Bruce hovered uncertainly on the other side of their teammate, looking nervous. “I just— I thought he was gone, you know? Then I see him on that bridge… I never thought I’d see him alive again.” He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head slowly. “Now I have to wonder if that really is him. It’s his face, for sure, it’s his voice, I’d remember it anywhere, but… he doesn’t remember me. Or Brooklyn, or our families we had there. He doesn’t remember the Commandos. Or… what happened to him, after he fell off that train.” Steve’s hand fell away and Tony recognized the haunted look in his eyes. “He can’t tell me what happened to him.”

 

“Hey,” Bruce laid a hand on the Captain’s arm, giving him a shaky smile. “It’ll be okay. He’s here now, with us. We’ll figure out a way to help him, okay? We’re not going to let him stay like this.”

 

Steve’s own weary half-smile returned, and he nodded. “Okay. You’re right. We’ve just got to keep our chins up: he’s been through a lot, and it’s  going to take some time to get him back to normal. We just need to… work through this with him, however long it takes.”

 

The three of them stepped into the elevator. “Drop me off in the lab, would you, J?” Tony prompted, and the doors slid shut smoothly. “Then take these two up to the communal floor.”

 

“You’re not coming with us?” Bruce asked, frowning. “The team will want to hear how it went.”

 

“Go ahead and fill them in,” Tony assured him with a wave of his hand. “I don’t need to be there for the recap. I’ve got work to do.” Although he didn’t specify what that work might be, that didn’t stop Steve from shooting him a look, eyes bright with gratitude. Tony decided not to mention it. Mentioning it would only make it weird. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything,” he promised, stepping out of the lift as it opened onto the lab floor. “Bruce, take care of Cap for me, you’re in charge while I’m gone.” He winked, teasing a snort of amusement out of Cap and a deep frown from Bruce, but then it was gone as the doors shut between them.

 

Tony’s jovial attitude subsided as his audience disappeared. “JARVIS, you were recording all that, right?”

 

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to play it back for you?”

 

“Hit it,” Tony agreed, flopping into a rolling chair. The video picked up when the Winter Soldier woke up, not even bothering to look around: he just stared straight up at the ceiling. “Skip ahead to the part where he starts answering my questions.”

 

Tony watched the tape back, watching the way the Soldier acted around him: like he was some kind of personal bodyguard willing to kill to keep him safe. Tony snorted, shaking his head. Where had this guy been during Afghanistan? Hell, he was probably  _ there _ , based on his track record.

 

_ “Why are you only listening to  _ me _?” Tony demanded on the recording. The Winter Soldier was staring at him, mostly emotionless, but a flicker of confusion crossed his face at the question. For a moment he was silent, and Tony thought it would be just like all the other questions. He didn’t know, he didn’t remember, he had just been wiped and he didn’t understand. _

 

_ “You’re the Handler,” The Winter Soldier had said instead, flooring all three Avengers. _

 

“A Handler,” Tony ran a hand over his jaw, grimacing. “Why the hell did he pick  _ me _ as his damn Handler? Steve seems like the logical choice. Or maybe Bruce: he looks like your typical Hyrda scientist.”

 

“Sir,” JARVIS announced, pausing the playback of the video. Damn courteous of him, Tony thought with a wry twist to his mouth. “Ms. Romanoff is requesting entry to the lab.”

 

“Jesus,” Tony rolled his eyes, but waved a hand in acceptance. “Alright, yeah, let her in. I bet she knows more about all this than we do: we really should have had her in there to start with.”

 

“Maybe,” Natasha answered from behind him. Tony leaned back in his chair, tipping his head back to snatch a look at her as she emerged from the elevator. “But more people would only have caused problems. I was watching on the surveillance.”

 

“Good, good,” Tony waited while she leaned her hip against the table, looking down at the projected screen where the Winter Soldier sat, staring expectantly up at Tony. “So what do you think about all this? We’ve got the Winter Soldier… what should we do with him?”

 

“I think… that that’s a complicated question,” Natasha murmured in that way that implied she hadn’t finished thinking it through yet. “It’s not as if we can give him to SHIELD… with the organization compromised, it’s far more likely that he’d fall right back into Hydra’s hands than anything else. But there’s not really any other organization that operates at a level equipped to handle him.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Tony admitted, rubbing at his chin. “You were watching, right? He hardly strikes me as the killing machine you were hyping us up for. What’s the deal with that?”

 

“He doesn’t have any orders,” Natasha answered with a shrug. “We interrupted in the middle of…  _ something _ . It seems like they erased his memories, somehow. Reset his brainwashing. He doesn’t have anything to be doing, so he’s not doing anything.”

 

“And there’s not anybody to  _ give _ him orders. So what does that mean? He’s just going to sit around and wait forever?”

 

“Well…”

 

“I don’t like that tone,” Tony shot her a sharp look. “What do you have in mind? I’m sure that it’s not going to be anything I like, but you might as well tell me so I can vet it before you end up running it by Cap. And let me remind you: that’s his best friend from before he got turned into a human popsicle. So we can’t go doing anything that Cap isn’t going to like.”

 

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to make a suggestion or anything. Just an… observation, I suppose.” She paused momentarily, considering. “It seems like he thinks that you’re his Handler, right? You’re in charge of him. You’re the one who can tell him what to do.”

 

“Are you suggesting that I  _ do _ ?” Tony’s breath caught at the implications of that. “You mean you want me to take the loaded weapon I’ve got sitting in my medical bay… and shoot it?”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Natasha answered primly. “I’m just saying that you probably  _ could _ . He’d probably obey your orders.”

 

“We’re not talking about that,” Tony answered firmly. “We’re not even going to entertain the idea of using that guy as a weapon. First of all… Cap would lose his goddamned mind if we even suggested it. But more than that, I am not about to show up in front of the press with the  _ Winter Soldier _ and say, ‘oh, hey guys, this is a Nazi assassin we captured, he belongs to us now, please expect significantly more murders to be filed away under the Avenger’s Official Death Toll.’”

 

“Okay,” Natasha raised her hands in surrender. “That’s fair. I can’t fault you for that. But maybe we can still work this to our advantage.”

 

“How do you mean?” Tony asked, suspicious.

 

“I’m not sure yet,” She answered with a shrug, lips pursing. “It really depends on how far you’re able to push him. But at the very least, you can probably… I don’t know. Get him re-socialized?”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Tony blinked at her, deadpan. What the hell could she be thinking? Socialize the Winter Soldier? Not fucking likely.

 

“Obviously you could screw it up,” Nat responded flippantly, and he immediately understood that she was trying to goad him, and it was  _ working _ , damnit. “You might lose control of him and he goes on a murder spree, who knows? I just thought that if anybody could pull it off…”

 

“Oh, shut it, Romanoff,” Tony deadpanned back at her, waving the holographic screen in front of him away. “You think you’re real cute, don’t you? Jesus. I’m not a moron, I’m not going to just… jump into this.” As much as he suddenly  _ wanted _ to, Cap would probably  _ literally  _ murder him if he tried. Better to talk it out with him first. Oh: and maybe the rest of the team, too. “After all, we’ve got time. What with SHIELD dismantling itself from the inside out, it’s probably going to be a while until anything else comes into our ballfield.”

 

“We can hope so, at least,” Natasha agreed, straightening back up. “But let’s try and tackle this before something ends up blowing up in our faces again, ok? I don’t want to be taken by surprise if something ends up happening.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony frowned up at her, watching as she turned to leave. “Hey, Nat,” She paused, turning back to look at him with an expectant gaze. “Why do I feel like you know more about all this than you’re telling us?”

 

Natasha smiled at him, a dangerous expression that made him wish he hadn’t asked. “Because I do, Tony,” She answered easily, and he grimaced back at her. “I think that it would be smart of you to assume that I  _ always _ know more about any given situation than I’m telling you. But don’t worry, I’ll speak up if it turns out to be need-to-know information.”

 

“Great,” Tony answered dryly, tossing up one hand in his exasperation. “It’s always good to know that you’re holding out on me.”

 

“The price of working with spies, Stark,” She told him with a shrug, then she turned and left the lab, leaving Tony stewing in his discomfort again.

 

What the hell had she even come down here for? Tony frowned, turning back to his desk. She certainly hadn’t been down here for long. The only thing she had really seemed to have on her mind, after watching the surveillance of the interrogation, was the fact that the Winter Soldier listened to Tony’s orders. Tony was the Handler, now. He knew that, had known it before she pointed it out… so what did she want from him?

 

She wanted him to make use of it, obviously, Tony admitted to himself, rubbing stinging eyelids. But why? What investment did Natasha have in this guy? Maybe she was just using that terrific spy brain of hers— trying to figure out how to turn the situation to their advantage. It wouldn’t be surprising, if that was the case, but it didn’t sit quite well with him. It didn’t seem like the correct explanation. 

 

What did she know that she wasn’t telling? She knew more about the Winter Soldier than the rest of them, obviously, she’d made that clear when he first came up, long before they’d pulled him out of that Hydra base. But why the hell wasn’t she cluing them all in on the rest of it?

 

“Spies are such shitheads, honestly,” He groaned aloud.

 

“I take offense to that,” Clint’s voice came, slightly echoey, from above, and Tony lurched to his feet, slamming his hands against his desk to the sound of laughter.

 

“Barton!” He snapped. “Out of the goddamned vents!”

 

Spies were  _ such shitheads. _


	3. Out of the Fetor of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve reflects

Steve sat in the chair in the medbay room where the Winter Soldier lay strapped to the bed. With his hands clasped together the way they were, his head bowed as it was, someone might think he was praying. In reality, he was grieving.

 

Bucky lay strapped to the table in front of him, but his friend was nigh unrecognizable. Even beyond the long, wild hair that Bucky would never have allowed, before the war, even beyond the metal arm that shone malignantly under the harsh white light of the room, this wasn’t the same man Steve remembered.

 

The Winter Soldier stared up at the ceiling, as he had all day today— and yesterday, too, and all the week before that. Despite that, he didn’t look bored: he looked like he had completely checked out. Like he was an empty shell. Steve hated thinking about what Hydra must have done to turn his lively, spirited friend into… this. It wasn’t even that they forced him into compliance. This was beyond compliance. This was a complete override of Bucky’s personality. If he’d been coerced into obeying, then it would have ended once the Avengers rescued him from them… but it hadn’t stopped. Bucky was just  _ gone. _

 

And that was the hardest part of it, he thought glumly. It seemed like he couldn’t hang onto Buck, no matter what he did. Steve lost Bucky when he was deployed to the war. He lost him again when he was taken as a prisoner of war and declared dead. And again, after that, when he’d fallen from the train. And now, just like always, he thought that he had his friend back, against all odds…

 

But no. He wasn’t here. All that Steve had was a man with his face.

 

Steve shook his head slowly, thumbs pressing to the bridge of his nose as his head lowered further against his laced fingers. He tried not to think of it that way, but it was difficult, adjusting to all this. Especially considering the short amount of time they’d had Bucky here in the medical bay.

 

They couldn’t keep him here forever, Steve recognized. He’d been brought here, at first, because it was clear he was in need of medical treatment. When they’d found him, he’d been strapped to that chair, screaming like his life was trying to claw its way out from the inside, and then, before they’d gotten him out, he’d passed out cold.

 

That heart-wrenching memory made Steve shudder. When Bucky had slumped, going limp and loose in his bonds, for a few moments Steve had thought Bucky had died. He’d almost screamed himself, then, seeing his friend die before his eyes  _ again _ , but there hadn’t been much time to dwell. There were Hydra agents, SHIELD operatives, Secretary Pierce— they were swarming, attacking, and Steve had to focus on them or he wouldn’t be able to get to Bucky at all.

 

Natasha had beat him there, by the time the fighting ended, and the look in her eyes when she looked up at him brought the breath back into his lungs for the first time since he caught sight of Bucky’s face during the fight.

 

He was alive, she had said, and that word rung in his ears.  _ Alive _ . Bucky was alive.

 

Who the hell’s Bucky?

 

Steve flinched as the words came back to him unbidden. He’d seemed so genuine, guileless… a little afraid. He hadn’t recognized his own name, Steve thought, a lance of agony shooting through him like a lightning bolt. 

 

He looked over at the man lying on the bed and wondered what would happen to him next. He wouldn’t be able to just live here, strapped to a bed in the tower’s medical facility. Despite the fact that he seemed perfectly content to do so, not only was it not safe, it wasn’t  _ healthy. _

 

No matter where they decided to send Bucky, Steve decided, Steve was going to go with him. He wasn’t letting Bucky slip away from him again. He couldn’t take it.

 

“I’m with you ‘till the end of the line,” Steve said aloud, trying not to sound bitter. He glanced up, hoping that Bucky would react in some way, remember something, but just like always, there was nothing. His lips tugged outwards and he couldn’t tell for sure whether the expression on his face was a smile or a grimace. “You know, you said that to me, once. Do you remember that?”

 

There was no answer. It wasn’t like it was a surprise, but Steve found it disheartening anyway.

 

“It was right after my mother died,” Steve reminisced, not sure why he was bothering to speak aloud aside from the fact that he couldn’t bear to accept that Bucky really wasn’t in there. Maybe… maybe he could remind him. “Right after the funeral, in fact. We were standing outside my place, where I had lived with my mother, I mean. You offered to let me stay with you, but I turned you down. I was too proud.” He laughed quietly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair to try and steady his nerves. “I’m still too proud to accept help, sometimes. But I still remember, clear as day: you looked me in the eye and you said that to me.  _ I’m with you ‘till the end of the line, pal _ , you said. It always stuck with me. To the end of the line, that’s what we always told each other.

 

“That wasn’t the first time you helped me, and it sure wasn’t the last,” Steve kept talking, preferring the sound of his own tired voice to the oppressive silence of the room. “We grew up together, you and me. Do you remember any of that? We were a couple of hellions.” Steve’s laugh was a little more genuine, this time, despite the lingering melancholy. “The two of us were constantly in trouble, and I’ll tell you what, Buck, it was just about always my fault. You managed to talk us out of a lot of situations that I’d gotten us into, but when that didn’t work you were strong enough to back it up with your fists when you had to.”

 

Steve didn’t look at Bucky, now, as he kept talking. He stared down at his hands. “I regret doing all that stuff, as a kid, sometimes,” he admitted. “Not that I think it was wrong, or anything, I always stood up for what I thought was right— but I’m sorry that I always dragged you down with me. You didn’t deserve it.  You were a good kid, mostly; kind of a joker, the teachers never liked that, but that really got weighed out by the fact that you were a good  _ friend _ . That’s what really got you into trouble, most of the time.”

 

Steve flashed a nostalgic grin at his knuckles as he reminisced. “I got into more fights than I can  _ begin _ to remember,” Steve admitted. “It seemed like I was picking a fight with someone new every day. No, it wasn’t that simple— it was the same people over and over again, a lot of the time. The fact that they wouldn’t stop, they wouldn’t learn, even after we’d fought them… well, that always got under my skin. I couldn’t help myself if I saw them getting up to no good. The minute I saw them doing something they shouldn’t be doing, or I guess, the minute I saw them  _ picking _ on someone… that was it. I wasn’t willing to let them do whatever they wanted. Even if no one else was willing to stand up for the little guy, I refused to let bullies get away with it.

 

“And that’s what really bothered you the most about me, I think,” Steve mused with a slight shrug. “The fact that I wouldn’t leave well enough alone. It was that I wouldn’t back down from a fight, no matter how big they were, I would never back down. Which would have been fine, except for the fact that I tried to take them on on my own.” Steve laughed, then, remembering the consternation his friend often displayed towards him. “You always helped me, though. You were never willing to let me fight alone. You called me out on my bonehead moves, though.

 

“You were… amazing, Buck,” Steve’s voice softened a little. “I always admired you so much. You were everything I wished I could be, and you actually wanted to be  _ my _ friend. You were always looking out for me, and you cared about me, and you… you were my family, Bucky, when I didn’t have anybody else to turn to, you were always there.

 

“Until the war, anyway. But that wasn’t your fault.” Steve couldn’t look at him. He looked anywhere  _ but _ him. “Everyone was going. You thought that I’d be safer, back at home. You knew that I’d never get enlisted, no matter how hard I tried, and you thought that all the guys I’d want to pick fights with would be off fighting, with you. When you got accepted… I didn’t know what I was going to do, Buck. I couldn’t bear the thought of staying behind while you went off to fight. Is it bad that I didn’t want you to leave without me? Maybe that’s selfish,” Steve swallowed around the mounting grief in his throat. “But that’s just the way it is. I wanted you to stay with me, and it killed me that you weren’t going to.

 

“I guess that’s why this feels so bad now,” Steve admitted to the silent air, hoping that no one was watching over the surveillance. “I always think I’m going to get you back, but I never do. Not for long. And… I don’t know why this keeps happening, if it’s some kind of… fate, or just bad luck, or pure chance, but it keeps happening, Buck,” Steve ran his hand over his eyes, then, battling against the sudden surge of pain that threatened, for a moment, to overwhelm him. “Everything is okay when we’re together, but when you get taken away again— it’s so hard to bear. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing it, but…

 

“You listen to me, Bucky. You just listen. I don’t know if you’re still in there. I don’t know if the man I remember died, or got erased, or if you’re still hidden somewhere, deep down inside, but I want you to listen to me right now. This isn’t over. Your life isn’t over. I know you’ve been through hell, Bucky, and I know that the things you’ve seen are… are too much. I shouldn’t ask you to come back. I shouldn’t ask you to face everything that’s happened to you. It’s not fair of me, it’s not  _ right _ . I should just let you live out the rest of your life this way. I should let you stay the way you are, with no regrets, no remorse, no memories of everything you had, and everything you lost. It’s cruel of me to ask you to come back.

 

“But Bucky, you never gave up on me. No matter what happened, you were there for me. ‘Till the end of the line, right, Buck? So how the hell am I supposed to give up on you?” He turned determined eyes down to the linoleum flooring. “We’re on some bumpy tracks, right now, pal, but it’s not over, yet. I’m not getting off this train. I’m not going to let you fall again, Bucky. It’s you and me, and you  _ never _ gave up on me, not once. So I’m not giving up on you, either.”

 

Steve steeled himself, sucking in a long, steadying breath, and finally lifted his eyes back to the Winter Soldier on the table. He hadn’t moved, Steve saw, his expression hadn’t shifted, but as he watched, he saw a tear slide the length of Bucky’s temple and drip down to the bed below. He froze, staring with wide eyes, one hand lifted, like he wanted to reach out. He didn’t remember moving it. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he found one more word.

 

“Bucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hi, so, clearly the update schedule has been abandoned. Not out of any desire to do so, it was more just... writers block for the last month. I was trying to double the length of this chapter but everything I did just felt like stuffing, so I cut it all back out on the advice of my beta and I'm accepting that this is the right and proper length for this chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the wait!


	4. Floors Eighty-Three to Ninety-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Hi! Hello! So you remember how I told you I was going to post this chapter weeks ago? Well! My computer is broken!

“And, finally,” the Handler announced grandly as the elevator doors opened. “This is the common room.” The Asset followed the man out as they continued the tour of the facility, and it could hear the Soldier following close behind. The back of its neck prickled uncomfortably, but it refused to turn to look.

 

Tony and Steve, the Asset knew, but their names didn’t matter. No matter how many times they tried to trick it into using them, it knew better.

 

“What do you think?” The Handler was testing it again,  _ again _ , so it ignored the question and just took in the room. Grand, expensive, not at all what it was used to. It had assassinated people in rooms like this before, but never spent much time in one. It was, unlike those other rooms, clearly well used: there were empty soda cans on the tables next to the couches, a few smudges on the large glass windows, the lingering smell of food in the air. This wasn’t the sterile environment of a showroom; this was a room that played host to many people all day.

 

It wondered briefly if no one was there because  _ it _ was coming, or if it was just a coincidence.

 

The Handler and the Soldier exchanged a glance as the Asset gazed passively towards the far wall, forcibly pushing down the confusing swelling of its battered emotions. “We’d, uh, like you to feel comfortable here,” the Soldier told it haltingly. “You can… make yourself at home.”

 

“You’re allowed to move between the floors,” the Handler told him, and the Asset tuned back in to pay attention. This was important. “At least, between eighty-three and ninety-three. If you try and go to another floor or leave the tower, JARVIS will let me know and we’ll stop you.”

 

“Understood,” The Asset answered. It had a wider range of allowed motion than usual, it noticed. Plenty of room to find places to be alone.

 

“I’m expecting you to start taking care of yourself, now,” the Handler said firmly, adopting a clear tone of command. Fucking  _ finally, _ a goddamned  _ order _ . “That means eating three meals a day, showering once every day, and getting at least six hours of sleep every night.”

 

“Understood,” The Asset repeated, not letting its bafflement filter into its tone. Those were things that had never been asked of it before, but hell, there must be a reason. It wasn’t unusual for a Handler to not want to take care of the Asset, after all, but it was definitely strange to allow this much agency to it.

 

“The other residents of the tower will be around,” the Handler said, and the Asset nodded once. “Don’t engage in violence under any circumstances.”

 

“Self defense?” the Asset prompted, eyes sharp on the Handler, whose face twisted sourly.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” he answered, arms crossing, and the Asset nodded again. He hadn’t said no. “Like I said. Under  _ any circumstances. _ ” There was a long pause while the Handler and the Soldier stared silently at it, expecting something. 

 

“Anything else?” the Asset spoke eventually, then regretted it, expecting to be punished, but the Handler, once again, proved himself to be disturbingly lax when it came to discipline.

 

“No, that’s it,” he gestured to the empty room. “Go on. Go… do something.”

 

The Asset took a few steps away, keeping the two of them in its periphery, but they didn’t move, so it turned away to check the room in further detail. It didn’t see cameras anywhere, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t there: it was certain that there had been hidden cameras in the room it’d been in before. Every time it woke, it remembered, someone had entered the room within minutes. If there had been cameras it couldn’t see there, there were probably some here, too. It would remember that.

 

The couches were clustered around a large television, and as the Asset approached, it noticed even more use than it had seen from across the room. There was a dark stain on one cushion: not blood, but something brown. The empty cans on the table hinted as to what it might be. Under the television were rows upon rows of what looked like dvds, or maybe video games. A few haphazard stacks were piled up on top of the cabinet with glittering disks scattered over the surface.

 

“We had a movie night, last night,” the Soldier spoke, startling the Asset with its proximity. It hopped the couch, landing firmly on the other side and spinning to face the threat, but the Soldier didn’t look aggressive. He looked more sheepish than anything else, and a flare of anger ripped through the Asset as it wrenched its eyes away from his face. It wished that he would just stay  _ away _ . “I’m sorry,” the Soldier showed him empty hands, as if that would soothe it. As if it didn’t  _ know _ that those hands were deadly weapons all on their own. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“You didn’t scare me,” the Asset ground out, casting a flickering gaze to the Handler, who was still standing by the elevator with folded arms, watching the interaction play out with as close to casual disinterest as could be expected. Despite its reassurance, it still moved away from the Soldier quickly, casting one more distrustful look towards him. It didn’t  _ like _ to be around the Soldier, because being around the damn  _ Soldier _ made it think about things it did and didn’t  _ like _ .

 

It was doing its best not to think about the things that the Soldier had said to it yesterday, in that medical bay, but it was struggling. The allure of the past had never been so strong.

 

It turned its attention to the large windows lining one wall— it would be more accurate to say that one wall was made entirely of glass. It crossed the floor to look out over the city. New York, it recognized, looking across the river towards what it knew was Brooklyn. It didn’t know why it knew that, but the knowledge only made it grow more agitated, so it turned from the sunny day outside without further investigation of the area.

 

There was a doorway on the opposite wall. More of an open archway, it corrected itself, stepping through into a kitchen. Upscale, clearly fit for a personal chef, but not so decked out to be able to accomodate a  _ team _ of chefs. There was also a long wooden table that seemed out of place, against the opulence of the rest of the tower. This, aside from the stained cushion from the living room, was the only piece of furniture it had seen that didn’t match the sleek, futuristic design favored by whoever had designed the place.

 

It looked old, the Asset thought at first, stepping closer to examine it. Upon inspection, though, it discovered that it wasn’t truly old, just thoroughly abused. The Soldier and the Handler appeared in the corner of its eye, watching from the door. It ignored them in favor of tracing one finger along a deep groove in the table. A knife mark, from the look of it. And these pockmarks, further down, like someone had punctured the wood over and over, splintering it, only for it to be sanded down smooth again. Not bullet holes, but something thick and sharp, too broad to be a knife. Someone had surely shot a few rounds into this table, it decided, fingers jumping to circle the clearly defined bullet still wedged in the wood.

 

It could see tiny pricks, like a fork had been stabbed into the surface. Many times, from the look of it. There were a few pen smudges and, if it looked closely enough, it could see the imprint of numbers where someone had written too heavily on a piece of paper and marked the table below. It brushed over the math with metal fingers and moved on.

 

The edges of the table in front of the chairs had been worn smooth from constant use: it could see, clearly, the slightly rounded edges in front of each of the six chairs down the length of the table. The head and foot of the table, though, where two more chairs sat, were unabused. The places had been newly added to the seating arrangement, it determined.

 

It turned away from its examination of the table to look out the windows in this room. It was easier to pretend that Brooklyn, behind and below, wasn’t there when he was just staring down at the bustling Manhattan streets, both hauntingly familiar and terrifyingly unknown. There were a lot of people down there, it admitted to itself, feeling a shiver of something it refused to acknowledge before pushing it back down with a swell of fierce anger.

 

The Soldier and the Handler were still in the door, blocking its way out, so it continued to investigate the room with a growing sense of unease. Yanking open cabinets and checking the contents, rifling through drawers and reluctantly leaving the knives where they lay in the block. It was clear that its behavior was making  _ them _ nervous, too, when the Handler spoke up.

  
  
  
  


“Looking for something?”

 

The Asset straightened, shooting his attention towards the man, leaning casually against the frame like he owned the place. Handlers, it thought with a disdainful snort.

 

“No,” it eventually answered, sliding the drawer stuffed full of stirring spoons shut. “Just… familiarizing myself with the area.”

 

“Oh,” the Handler nodded. “Good, good. Well, just… remember. No weapons. JARVIS will tell me if you take anything.”

 

“Understood,” the Asset agreed. It didn’t much care for JARVIS. The computer would, apparently, rat it out over  _ anything. _

 

“Alright, well, in that case,” it turned to the Soldier. “we should let him get comfortable. It kind of seems like we’re cramping his style.”

 

“Oh,” the Soldier’s face slumped into something between relief and disappointment. “You’re right. Well, if you need anything, just ask JARVIS to let us know and one of us will come find you.”

 

The Asset averted its eyes, remembering the fierce, shaking words the Soldier had spoken to it in the hospital, and there was a long, defeated sigh from the door.

 

“Let’s go,” the Handler said, quieter, not speaking to the Asset anymore, and then there were footsteps, followed by the sound of the elevator. Sixty seconds longer of standing still, staring at the wall, then it determined that they had left. It was alone.

 

There wasn’t much else to explore here, it decided, and went to sit at the table. It was a familiar routine: sit and wait for orders. Wait for the next mission. Wait for the time to strike. It was used to waiting, and it would sit here until it was time to do as the Handler had instructed. One shower, three meals, and sleep. It could use the light level outside to determine its timing.

 

It could wait for a long time.

 

Unfortunately, it didn’t get the opportunity to do so. The Asset had only been sitting in the kitchen for maybe forty minutes or so when a sandy-haired man came through the door, stopping abruptly at the sight of the weapon sitting at the table.

 

“Oh, shit,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s you.” The Asset didn’t answer, merely watching him with a calculating gaze. It seemed to   phase faze the stranger only slightly as he blinked, then resumed his trip to the refrigerator. “I didn’t know you were in here. How’s it going, man? I’m Hawkeye.” The Asset tried to figure out where this man ranked. How  _ much _ did the Asset have to defer to him? “I mostly go by Clint around the tower, though. And you’re Bucky, right? Winter Soldier. Pretty awesome. A little terrifying, if I must be honest, but they tell me you’re cool, not about to go on a killing spree or anything, so that’s all I need to hear. You hungry?” Clint’s head emerged from where it had been buried in the refrigerator, looking for a response, but he got none. After a few moment’s pause, Clint shrugged. “I’ll make you some, no problem. Eat it or don’t, it’s not coming out of  _ my _ paycheck.”

 

The Asset watched carefully, but the… what was he? An agent, it supposed, but as the Asset studied him, it became clear that he wasn’t like the agents it was used to: he was too self assured. This man moved with the controlled grace of a predator, but without the single-minded determination of a Soldier. He commanded attention the way a Handler did, but then, he was much too friendly. Who the hell  _ was _ this guy?

 

“Not real chatty, huh? That’s fine,” The… Clint continued after only a brief pause. “I get it. Sometimes shit sucks and you just don’t want to talk. I’ve been there. And I imagine shit sucks pretty bad for you right now.” Clint was making sandwiches, from the look of it. “You know, word travels fast around here about all the hottest gossip. Especially since there aren’t that many of us, and if someone wants to talk about something, they’ve only got so many options.” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, conspiratorial and sly. It put the Asset on edge to see it. The man was chattering like he was an idiot, but it was clear from the gleam in his eye that he was anything but. “But even if they  _ try _ not to tell you the whole truth, there are a lot of good ways to find out.”

 

A mercenary, the Asset realized abruptly. Not with the organization at all. That explained everything.

 

“I bet you’re wondering what the gossip about you is,” Clint commented, turning to dig around in a cabinet. “I’ll tell you, if you want.” There was a significant plastic crinkling sound, and a few moments later he produced two bags of chips. “You like regular Lays or Barbecue?” The Asset’s eyes drifted towards the bright yellow bag in Clint’s right hand.

 

Even after everything the Soldier had said to it yesterday, it remembered nothing. The unstoppable storm surge of emotion that had overcome it due to his words was completely incomprehensible, accompanied by no memories. It was stupid, then, so stupid that the red and white logo on a bag of chips should send it flashing back to the past like it had stepped directly into a time machine.

 

_ “ _ Aren’t they supposed to be in a can?” he asked flatly, then startled.  _ He _ , the Asset understood, for just a few moments. He’d been a person, once.

 

But the Asset saw the look on Clint’s face, the way he was  _ staring _ at him, and it shut back down immediately, eyes dropping to the table as its head bowed in order to let its hair hide its face. There were a few moments of silence broken only by the Asset’s ragged breaths as it struggled to rein itself in, to shove all the emotions down and away where they belonged. Clint spoke again, eventually, and he still sounded just as casual as before, but the Asset knew better than to trust that.

 

“Nah, dude,” the Soldier could see him shrug even through the strategic curtain of hair. “That’s Pringles. I think we got some of those, too, if you want those instead.”

 

“I don’t want anything,” the Asset’s fear and anger burst out of it in a growl as it shoved away from the table. It shot a murderous glance towards Clint, who still had a smile on his face, but the Asset could see the calculation in his eyes. It ripped its gaze away again and stalked from the room, warnings pinging sharply in the back of its head to turn around, to not let Clint get the drop on it, to  _ fight _ —

 

But the Handler had forbidden it. And besides, there was just the sound of crinkling plastic in the kitchen: no footsteps tapping across the floors after it. The Asset got in the elevator, which opened for it automatically and shut just as autonomously. A swirl of bitterness threaded its way into its turbulent emotions even as it continued swallowing them back down.

 

“Where to, sir?” The AI— JARVIS, it remembered— asked politely. The Asset floundered for a moment, unsure. It had just been trying to get out, to remove itself from the situation. It hadn’t really thought beyond getting in the elevator. It looked for a button on the walls to punch, a random floor somewhere in his radius, maybe, but there were no buttons. “Sir?”

 

Right— he was supposed to tell JARVIS where he wanted to go. “The gym,” it blurted, remembering the brief tour it had received of the floor on the facility tour. The elevator slid into motion, and the Asset was left in peace to wrestle with the tar-like fear. Clint would tell the Handler about this slip-up, it was sure. Then the Handler would finally let the facade of casual disinterest fall away and he would rectify the situation.

 

The Asset thought of the chair.

 

It thought of the cryotube.

 

It thought of the long hours of pain where the Asset had no choice but to  _ wait _ because an object did not wait  _ patiently— _

 

The elevator doors opened and the Asset stiffened, hands clenching into fists at its sides. The metal creaked almost imperceptibly, but it didn’t linger in the elevator, instead stepping out into the silent gym. It was immediately overwhelming despite the echoing quiet: there was a slew of complicated and unfamiliar machinery that it was reluctant to try to use. It needed somewhere to burn off the quickly mounting energy flooding its veins, but where to start? JARVIS was quick to pick up on its hesitation.

 

“Do you require assistance?” 

 

The Asset spotted one familiar piece of equipment and its mounting anxiety faded back away into the quiet assurance it was used to. It didn’t bother answering the voice from the ceiling, now: there was no need. Instead, it snagged a punching bag from where it was propped against the wall. It ignored the doorway that led to the locker rooms, instead heading straight over to the mount on the ceiling.

 

This was easy. There wasn’t really any danger of messing up, here; he could just pound at the bag with both fists. As long as he kept his pace up, no one would bother him. Although someone was surely watching over the surveillance system, they wouldn’t be paying close enough attention to critique its moves.

 

It could just punch.

 

It let itself sink into the blankness of movement, its right fist hitting the bag with a satisfying thump. No thought required, no way to fail. No cause for punishment.

 

Its left fist snapped against the leather and it felt the tension in its shoulders ease slightly. Just slightly, but it was something. The Asset wasn't unnerved— objects didn't feel unnerved— but it would be, if it were a person. Things were strange, it thought. Nothing was right. A human would be terrified, but it wasn't one of those, so it was doing another set, instead.

 

Right, left, its fists pounded against the bag. Right, left. Right, left; there was no better way to leech the coiling stress from its body than this. Right, left. Right, left; the bag split open and sand spilled across the floor.

 

The Asset stepped back, frowning, just as the sound of footsteps rang out on the hard gym floor. There was a dragging sound, too, that set it on edge. It hadn’t heard anyone come in, it thought, eyes flicking to the right. The locker room, it realized. Someone had been in the locker room.

 

It turned, and a woman with red hair was coming towards it, dragging a new punching bag behind her. She gave it a tight smile, not commenting on the way it stepped backwards, around the sand, putting more distance between them as she hung up the bag. 

 

“Try this one,” she advised, jerking her chin towards it. “This is the kind Cap uses. Reinforced. Might hold up to you better.” The Asset watched as she rounded the bag, bracing it on the side farthest from it. It stepped forward, suspicious of her motives, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t move from her position, so it struck the new bag, falling back into the fluid movements of its training.

 

The quiet persisted for a while, broken only by the sound of skin and metal against leather and the ragged breaths that came with exertion. They were both tense, it could tell, but it was peaceful. At least, as far as the Asset could expect. 

 

It new better than to think that it would last, though, so it wasn’t surprised when she finally spoke.

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

The Asset’s next punch was a second late, throwing off its rhythm for just a moment, but it was easy to pick back up. It’s heart rate inexplicably picked up.

 

“No.”

 

Silence returned. It wanted to ask if it  _ should _ know, then hastily stuffed down the impulse. Objects, it thought in rhythm with its strikes. Don't. Want. 

 

“That’s alright,” the woman spoke eventually. “I don’t know who you are, either. I never knew your name.”

 

It didn’t have a name, the Asset thought stubbornly, forcing itself not to look over its shoulder for the Handler. “I am the Weapon.”

 

“That’s certainly what they say, isn’t it?” There was a moment’s pause, and the next time she spoke it was in Russian. “ _ Вы не изменились, так как я знал тебя. _ .”

 

In its surprise, it hit the bag too hard, arm whirring as it recalibrated. The woman, he noticed, still hadn’t let the bag shift under the immense force that should have sent her stumbling back.

 

“ _ Ты как я. Солдат. _ ” it said, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

 

“No,” she shook her head, switching back to English. “Not like you. But close.” She let go of the punching bag and came around it to stand in its line of view. It didn’t back away, this time. “We knew each other, once. When I was younger. You…” Her lips quirked up a little as her eyes scanned over its body. “Were about the same.”

 

“You worked with the organization?”

 

“It was before you were with Hydra,” she told it, head tilting to one side. “I’m sure you don’t remember.”

 

“Before,” it repeated, brows furrowing. “What the hell do you mean,  _ before _ ?” It could be punished for this, it knew it could, but there was something tickling at the back of its mind, like deja vu. The faintest hint of a memory that it just couldn’t quite grab onto.

 

She frowned, arms crossing over her chest, but she didn’t answer the question. “I never got to thank you. So even though you don’t remember, I want to say it now.” She let out a long breath, and it listened intently, feeling snow in its hair and an icy wind against its cheeks for a fraction of a second. “Thank you for saving me. I never would have made it out if not for you. I would have stayed in the Red Room and they would have killed me.”

 

“An object does not require thanks,” it barked, trying to recognize her, trying to remember saving her at all. Its head was spinning. It could taste cheap vodka and mint.

 

“No,” she agreed, and there was something about the way she said that that was  _ so familiar _ . “But a man does.”

 

“Who are you?” he asked, his head spinning. He was afraid. It was— he was— what year was it? He was cold.

 

“I go by Natasha, now,” she answered, watching him suck in shuddering breath after shuddering breath, like he was fresh off the ice. “But you called me Natalia, then.”

 

A woman with red hair, a man with a white lab coat, and a bright flicker of searing light flashed behind his eyelids as he crumpled to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on something weird for the next chapter. I hope it turns out well. I'm having to learn how to do CSS for it and it's very hard and I don't know what I'm doing.


	5. The Morning, and Beyond That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So heads up: 1) you need to have creators style turned on to read this right. I worked for about three and a half hours straight to get this right so pls humor me
> 
> 2) it doesn't look as good on mobile as it does on pc sorry i did my best

The Asset opened its eyes.

It lay motionless, breathing as steadily as it was able to. Shivers of pain still rippled through its body, but it disregarded them. It wasn’t enough to worry it.

The Soldier was sitting in the chair next to the bed again, watching silently. Even without looking, the Asset could hazard a guess as to what kind of expression was on his face. It had seen that mournful, tense look aimed towards it more than enough times.

“Are you ok, Buck?” the Soldier asked, voice quiet. The Asset considered not answering. It hadn’t answered, before.

“Functional.”

“Can I— do you—”

“Beat it, Stevie,” The Asset spoke at the same time as the man in its memories, voices echoing strangely in its head.

The Soldier visibly startled, straightening abruptly in the chair.

“Bucky?”

The Asset closed its eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. “You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“I’m not him.”

“You are.” The Asset could hear a shifting rustle. The Soldier settling in for an argument, it knew somehow.

"He was your friend," The Asset ground out, each word a struggle so soon after the burning pain of remembering Natalia. The pain they'd used on it, it remembered, when they'd found out it had been in love with her.

" _You_ are my friend," The Soldier interrupted, clearly assuming that it was finished with the thought.

"I don't know who you are." Its voice was glass, brittle and sharp as it directed a fierce stare towards the Soldier.

"Yes you—"

"I'm not hung up on you like he was," The Asset told him, half drowning in the surge and ebb of the memory. It could tell he had the rapt attention of the Soldier by the sudden intake of breath. The Asset sat up and fixed a cold stare on the Soldier. "Who you think I am— whether I used to be him in the past or not— I'm not him anymore. I don't know who you think I am, or who you want me to be," it reached out and grabbed the Soldier by the collar with its metal fist. The man flinched as if he'd been struck. "But you need to let it go."

It expected the Soldier to back down, it had to admit. It expected intimidation. It wouldn't have been surprised if that challenging light struck up behind the Soldier's eyes again. But it hadn't planned on the sudden aloof calm as the Soldier blinked at it.

"I never will," He said, the words firm and piercing, like the strike of a hammer to an anvil. The sound of a man making something. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, Buck. I'm with you—"

"'Till the end of the line," The Asset finished bitterly, pushing the Soldier away by the grip on his shirt. No, not a Soldier. It had to admit that Rogers wasn't a Soldier after all. It couldn't remember much, but it remembered that. "I know. But we crossed the line a long time ago." The Asset stood and strode to the open door, shaking the lingering electric pain out of its metal arm, and just out of spite, slammed it behind itself.

Objects, it recited resentfully, shouldn't feel spite. 

It was malfunctioning, obviously, it needed repair and reboot, it needed the chair—

But the encounter with Natalia had shaken something loose inside of it. It knew things that it hadn't before, it could tell immediately. It was  _feeling_ things. It was terrifying, it was wrong, it was sure to get the Asset punished as soon as the Handler found out. But the thing with this malfunction, the Asset thought, entering the elevator, was that the feelings were greedy. They were possessive and devious and they wanted to  _live_.

It wanted to keep them.

The threat of punishment was enough to make it shudder, though, and it rubbed its arm self consciously. It remembered, now, how they had programmed it to forget her, how they had erased her from its memory and installed  _pain_ into its mind if it should ever begin to remember. 

Well, it remembered now, it thought stubbornly, and the pain was gone. If it could avoid the Handler finding out for a while, maybe it would come up with a plan. The first thought would be to write it down, somewhere, the truth it was remembering, learning about itself moment by moment, but it knew that there were eyes everywhere. The Handler had assured it of that fact many times. It would be found out, for sure.

It didn't think it still loved Natalia; it admitted to itself. Objects didn't feel love. But it knew, now, that it had been in love with her.

Before, she had said. It had been in love with her  _before_.

The idea was terrifying and thrilling all at once, and the surges of emotion that were suddenly tearing through it like a tornado were almost too much to bear. It clamped down tight on the feelings, smothering them under a forceful will. As wonderful as it felt to experience even something like that surging fear, it wouldn't get to feel anymore if it let slip what had changed. Of course, it might have already let the cat out of the bag with its confrontation with Rogers.

The memories kept coming, it noticed, slightly unnerved. It was remembering new things, but they didn't  _connect_. It wasn't like remembering its conversation with Rogers a few minutes ago; it was like something that had happened to someone else.

Steve, it thought, testing out the word in its mind. Stevie.

Nothing. No sense of attachment, it admitted, not so much disappointed as resigned. It didn't  _know_ Rogers. Even as it started to remember, even as it absorbed the new memories and associate the small man in its memories with the hulking figure of today, it didn't  _know_ him.

"Hey there, Jimmy Page," the voice didn't make it jump, but something sharp inside it twisted unpleasantly as it turned to find the Handler leaned against a door frame behind it. Its eyes dropped to the ground and its jaw gritted. "How you feeling?"

"Functional," It answered again.

"We did some scans while you were out, hope that's okay," The Handler informed it nonchalantly, head tipping to the side. He was wearing pink tinted sunglasses that didn't look very functional. "Trying to find out why you dropped like that. There was a lot of... activity. In your brain."

The Asset said nothing.

"You were in pain," The Handler said, and the Asset could hear the frown in his voice, but it stayed silent. What did the Handler expect it to say? Yes or no? Either option was likely to garner punishment. "They did that to you."

Another baffling statement that the Asset couldn't understand at all, it thought dryly. What the hell was with this guy?

"It's fucked up, is all I'm saying," The Handler was growing visibly agitated, now, hands gesticulating as he demonstrated his frustration. "Who conditions a pain response like that into someone? These Hydra goons are some real pieces of shit, I'll tell you that. Hell, I don't need to tell  _you_ , you know better than  _anyone_... Sorry. No filter. Things just kind of come out, sometimes, not much I can do about it." The Handler's arms dropped to his sides as he eyed the Asset speculatively. "Are you in any pain, now?"

"Functional," The Asset repeated for the third time, blinking. It was still taken aback that the Handler had... apologized?

"I didn't  _ask_ if you were  _functional_ ," The Handler huffed irritably, and the Asset's eyes flicked momentarily to his face to gauge the expression there before darting away again. "I asked if you're  _in pain_."

There was a long, pregnant pause as the Handler stared at the Asset and the Asset stared at the floor. "Pain is inconsequential," it guessed at the answer the Handler wanted to hear, and was rewarded with the sound of a sigh.

"They really did a number on you," The Handler said, sounding disgusted. The tone was familiar, grounding, and it felt numbness cooling the pit of its stomach. Stay calm, the Asset told itself, closing its eyes. Don't let him see.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky, small and secret hidden behind the Asset's eyes, breathed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky opened his eyes.

He stretched, yawning widely as he twisted towards the tiny window, then hastily away as the sun shone in his eyes. He could hear Steve laughing as his nose wrinkled.

“Nice of you to join us,” Stevie teased him from where he sat on the couch, shamelessly staring as he sketched on an errant piece of paper. Bucky shot him a dirty look from the bed. His head ached.

“If you don’t stop wakin’ me up early, I’m gonna stop lettin’ you stay here. I don't gotta put up with this kinda shit from you, you know.”

“You do what you gotta do, Buck,” Steve answered, chin lifting proudly. Little guy like that, Bucky thought fondly as he propped himself up on his elbows. Always acting like a big man. Bucky liked that about him. “If you don’t want me here, all you gotta do is say.”

“Beat it, Stevie.” Bucky said, flopping back against the pillow with a quiet chuckle. Steve didn’t leave.

“What, and let you cry your eyes out over it? You’ve got your date with Marlene tonight, you can’t be showing up to that all hung up on me.”

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that, though, sweetheart,” Bucky smirked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. He didn’t have to see Steve’s face to know that he was blushing.

“People are gonna start to wonder,” Steve murmured, a frown plucking at his voice. Bucky could see it in his mind. The smile faded from Bucky’s face.

"If people were gonna wonder, they would have already started, by now. Besides, I thought that was the whole point a me goin' with Marlene?"

"She probably thinks you're gonna get married someday," The grimace on Stevie's face deepened as Bucky turned to look at him. "Maybe..."

"Not gonna happen," Bucky swung his legs out of bed. Steve got like this, sometimes. Doubtful of the future. Angry at the world. Despairing of their relationship. "So you can just forget about whatever you were about to say, pal." He gathered the sheet around his waist and crossed the floor to lean over Steve, one hand braced against the back of the couch. He could see Steve's cheeks reddening as he leaned his head back to keep his eyes on Bucky's. "You know I'm with you."

"Till the end of the line," Steve finished gamely, a resigned, affectionate smile flickering over his face for a moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Natalia was watching him with green eyes— icy, calculating eyes— as he pinned her down to the mat. She learned so quickly. Even just hours later, she would pin him to the bed the same way.

"No marks," He warned her as she dipped below his chin, as he always did. "No signs."

"Obviously," She scoffed, disinterested in his warnings. He would be more concerned if she had ever let her self control slip enough to give away the fact that they saw each other outside of training. 

"So sorry," He answered, rolling his eyes heartily. "Please forgive me for doubting you,  _oh master spy_."

"If I end up leaving a mark on you," She answered sweetly, fingers hooking in the neck of his uniform. "It's going to be a goddamned black eye."

He laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Damnit, Stevie," Bucky muttered, digging under the cabinet for any kind of antiseptic,  _anything_ , and coming up empty. Not like it was unexpected, he admitted to himself. They hadn't had the money for that kind of thing in a couple of months. That didn't seem to stop Steve from getting into fights, though.

"What did you want me to do?" Steve asked churlishly from where he was leaned on the counter. Bucky glanced up and the sun was streaming through the window, landing on Steve, and he was so beautiful, with his blonde hair and his split lip and his black eye. Bucky wrenched his eyes away, savagely slamming the door shut as Steve continued. "Ignore them? They weren't just going to leave those girls alone."

 

"No, I know you're not going to ignore them," Bucky snapped back. "You never ignore them. But you could have at least called for help."

 

"I had it," Steve insisted stubbornly, arms crossing over his chest. Bucky's eyes followed the movement before he forced himself to look away again, grabbing the cleanest towel they had and wetting the corner with water from the sink.

 

"Sure, Steve, you had it," Bucky agreed sarcastically, wishing they had anything in the icebox to put against Steve's eye, but work had been pretty scarce for the both of them lately. "That's why I found you bleeding in the trash."

"You're exaggerating," Steve tried to argue, but Bucky shoved the wet cloth against his bleeding lip. It was effective in shutting him up for a least a few seconds before he pushed Bucky's hand away, spluttering with frustration. Bucky watched his lips for too long before turning angry eyes back up to meet the cold fury present in Steve's.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The other kids were running off the other way, scared off by Bucky's height and his fists, and a tiny blond punk stared up at Bucky, his face swollen half to hell.

"Not bad," Bucky gave him a broad bloody-toothed grin and stuck his hand out. "You can throw a pretty good punch, all things considered." The kid straightened his back and shook Bucky's hand, skinned knuckles stretched tight.

"Not so bad yourself," The pipsqueak piped up, chin proudly lifted. Bucky liked him immediately.

"I'm James Buchanan Barnes," Bucky announced. "But all my friends call me Buck."

"Nice to meet ya, Buck," The blond kid beamed at him. "My name is Steve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer but this format was
> 
> So, so difficult
> 
> So I'm calling it
> 
> Hope you liked it I'll probably never do this again haha  
> Also it's unbeta'd cause i had to write it in ao3 instead of google docs pls forgive any mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey babes! Thanks for giving this a read! I don't have a set update schedule for this yet, but since this chapter was ready and the chapter for LAF was NOT, this one got posted instead. Sorry! But anyways, chapter two is almost ready to be sent off to beta, and then... I'll figure out where to plunk it in my schedule (which has kind of fallen into shambles. Oops!)
> 
> If you want to chat with me and others about this story or anything else I've written, or, well, anything else, for that matter!! Please feel free to join us in my discord server! https://discord.gg/4hdXVw4


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